Watching the man bustle about so energetically, Henry asked the young nurse beside him, "Miss Temple, do you know who that person who often comes to visit was?"
"I happen to know. She's a woman with terminal cancer. I don't know the doctor's diagnosis, but the nurses have all been saying she probably doesn't have much time left."
Henry was quite surprised by that. Wasn't she John Wick's deceased wife, the one who would later leave him a dog and a car?
So had she been miraculously saved, or was this another relationship?
"What do you mean, not much time left? Are you talking about me?" Whistler, lying in the hospital bed, spoke weakly. Clearly, he had only caught the last part of their conversation.
"Sir, you're awake. I'll go get the nurse." Claire Temple hurried out.
Abraham Whistler looked at the bald man standing beside his bed. "Who are you? And where is this?"
Henry flashed a sunny, cheerful smile, as though his teeth were sparkling. "Hello, Mr. Doe. I'm Henry Brown. This is New York Metropolitan Hospital.
"You had surgery here yesterday to treat your injuries. I don't know how you ended up collapsed in a place like Hell's Kitchen in Manhattan, New York, but it's truly great to see that you're all right."
Though they had met less often over the past few years, Whistler still recognized that voice. "Black Super?"
"No, there's no Black Super here. I don't know that person. I'm Henry Brown, Mr. Abraham Whistler."
"I thought I was John Doe."
"Oh, I almost forgot. The police are already watching you, after all. Using the wrong name would be troublesome." Henry smiled.
The old vampire hunter understood and stopped dwelling on it. He changed the subject. "Why am I in New York? Forget it,